


Moonspell

by TheVeryLastValkyrie



Category: The Last King (2016), The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: And I'm Addicted and Therefore Buggered, F/M, Impossible Loves (I Am Very Much Afraid That They Can Become an Addiction)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 09:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11288868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVeryLastValkyrie/pseuds/TheVeryLastValkyrie
Summary: “He is not the man I would choose to be with.” A Danish warlord and a Saxon princess, bathed in silver, lost in one another's light.





	Moonspell

A whole moon, he calls it. The Danish rise and fall of his voice does not repel me as it would my mother, it speaks to me – but I have been listening to Uhtred speak since I was young, and I know the rhythm northern words can weave. Danes speak like storytellers, and Erik is telling me a story. Erik, my captor, is telling me a story. Erik is telling me the story of the night he was born, and he calls a full moon a whole moon, and I put my faith in the God of my father and in His blessed name, I am a Christian…but I swear, I can hear the moonlight singing.

“I saw the moon,” he says. “The clear sky, and I wanted to share it.”

Nor does the look of him frighten me. He has scars, as all fighting men have scars, but his eyes are blue, and they are not unkind. I follow the darker blue lines on his skull when he turns his head away, and they do not frighten me either.

I feel, impossibly, as if I can breathe.

“I’m glad you thought of me,” I reply.

“It was either share it with you or my brother –” And I have to wonder, even as I laugh, why Sigefrid turns the blood in my veins to ice, and ice water, and Erik does not. They take cities together, women together, they took me together. Their ends are the same and they have no love for Saxons – but still Erik’s gaze holds mine, steady, blue, and I do not believe he sees me as Sigefrid does. I am not no one, no one and nothing but a name, Alfred’s daughter, Alfred’s princess, my price priceless but my worth high enough to raise an army, to put swords and spears in the hands of men who loathe the very ground my Saxon, Christian father walks upon. “The choice was difficult, I admit.”

Would Sigefrid appreciate the beauty of this night?

Did Erik even stop to ask?

I feel him look at me as I look into the water, though I do not see him turn. I do not see the faded fabric covering my thighs, my clean hands and dirty nails. I only feel. I feel Erik looking at me as if his skin gives off light and I am a grass blade, and though I am not looking, I see his hand come close to my face, and I feel the light, careful brush of broad thumb and scored finger beneath my chin.

I am not afraid to look at him.

I am afraid of what he might see when he looks at me.

So I look. I take my power as a princess would, does: barbarity does not keep his face from being handsome. I like his strong, straight nose, the flat lines of brows above deep-set eyes. I like his manner of handling me, as if I am precious, for so I know he believes me to be.

I like the sweet, queer expression that makes him seem neither Danish nor Saxon, only tender.

“I’ve never seen a face like this before.” My cheeks feel hot in the cold night air. I should draw back, but I do not. I will not. I do and say nothing as the tips of his finger trace over my jaw, and I think about their path to my lips, and I do not consider myself a captive any longer, except in this moment; I consider myself captive to this moment, to Erik, to his fierce presence and the not at all fierce pressure of his gaze pressing into mine, holding me without bonds. “Now I see it,” he tells me. “Even when I close my eyes.”

And I dare myself to breathe again as his hand slips from my face, a warrior’s hand once again, and not mine – and yet, I sense, with a selfishness and a certainty which is surely impossible, mine.

I have longed for this.

(I have taught myself to forget that I have longed for this).

“Your husband is a fortunate man.”

“My husband does not see me.”

“Then he’s blind or stupid.”

“He is not blind.”

Aethelred’s eyes see well enough. I am flesh, like any horse in his stable, high-bred but still required to bear his weight. The thought of his tearing, shocking penetration, his violation does not bring tears to my eyes because I do not let it. I do not doubt that this is not how it is between a man and a woman in love (oh, Aethelred’s eyes see me, and his ambition sees me, but if he cared to see me he would not force me face down on the bed, punish me for my womanhood, punish me with his manhood, twist his fingers into my hair because I am his wife, and can be conquered so).

Erik does not hear me speak so of my husband, but still he draws it up from the depths of my silence without any need for confession. “And he is not gentle, I would guess.”

Love is as indistinct, distant and desirable to me as the stars, but that does not mean I am ignorant. It _should_ be gentle. It _should_ be kind. I should find a home for myself in my husband’s arms, a nest, as if I am some small, foraging bird seeking a place to roost. It does not become me to dream of resting at long last and forever against Erik’s breast, but I do – and in my head, I listen to his heartbeat, feel the thick bands of muscle in his arms tense around me, smell his male scent and surprise myself with how content I am to be his captive indeed.

I am ashamed.

(I have never been less ashamed).

“He is the one who mistreats you?” Erik’s eyes remain as steady, as blue.

“He is not the man I would choose to be with.”

Erik snatched me from my women. Erik murdered my guards. Erik has spilled blood and entrails and souls, but he would be gentle. God would call upon him to honour me, and even he, a heathen, would hear and obey. I even believe he would be listening for it.

I allow myself to dream that he, not Uhtred, was our loyal north man. I fill my whole being with fire imagining myself growing before him, emerging from the shell of childhood, his waiting until it was good and proper to offer my bride price. I am proficient at dreaming of wedding days, of being courted, my mother’s disapproval, the smooth, cunning turn of my father’s head as he weighed up the reward of answering yes instead of no. They would never need fear for me, safe beneath the furs at Erik’s side, guarded like a queen when he rode away from me, crowned with flowers when he returned. His sword would be theirs forever.

I would be happy forever.

He says he sees my face even when he closes his eyes, this Dane –

This face.

 _My_ face.

And I though I think it will take forever to come, and though it seems it takes forever to come, his kiss on my mouth is cool and dry, silver like the moonlight.


End file.
